When I Wake
by trolltasm
Summary: When he stared into the chamber of the gun he'd left in the middle of the table, he knew. Karen had already lost herself. But for Wesley, it was time to learn who he could be, in addition to who he already was.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I wrote this for three reasons:_  
 _1\. Wesley was too fucking smart to die like he did._  
 _2\. I hate Karen's character._  
 _3\. Wesley deserved to live. There. Somebody said it._

* * *

There was a part of James Wesley that always admired Karen Page. There was a cunning ruthless to her that was both provocative and familiar.

When he stared into the chamber of the gun he'd left in the middle of the table, he knew _why_ she felt so familiar.

She would do whatever was necessary for her own life, and her own cause. Just as Wesley himself did—just as his employer had learned to do as well. For all of her flouting and touting about, she had become one of the monsters she fought against.

Karen was her own worst enemy, though she kept the gun pointed squarely at him. She'd pull the trigger, but she wouldn't regret it later. She'd chosen herself over him. She would, perhaps, he decided as he looked into her wavering gaze, have nightmares. Horrific nightmares that may well keep her awake for weeks or months.

But she wouldn't regret it.

One day, her nightmares would stop, and she'd understand the path others like Wesley had walked before her. She'd see the light at the end, and she'd know what must be done to finally arrive there.

He laughed quietly to himself as she pulled the trigger. Karen was more like Wilson Fisk than any of her little friends even knew.

But _he_ knew.

And as she pulled the trigger several times into what she believed to be his unprotected chest, he laughed and laughed until both he and the chair he sat in were knocked back onto the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

There were rules to life in Hell's Kitchen—if you wanted to _keep_ living in Hell's Kitchen, that was.

The first was that you didn't stuck your nose where it didn't belong.

That was why Marina Burgundy paid no mind to the blond ditching an abandoned and dilapidated building when Marina had been forced to pull over to fix her spare tire. It was late, it was about to rain, and she had her hands full as it was trying to force a newer tire onto her old blue Volvo.

Frankly, Marina had simply been relieved that the girl had appeared unarmed and uninterested in Marina, because it was the middle of the night. Marina might have a gun in her purse, but so did most everyone in Hell's Kitchen, and that sure didn't stop people from shooting each other.

When she'd heard a groan from the direction the girl had fled, Marina had faltered.

A rational person, she supposed, would be inclined to help. Then again, rational people probably didn't try and run a small family bookstore right smack in the middle of 10th Avenue. Or, she thought to herself without much humor, indulge a late-night snack craving in a raggedy old vehicle when they were likely safer at home.

Marina heaved a sigh as she hammered her tire into place with the back of the wrench. She was not going to get herself killed tonight playing hero like some masked vigilante. She was twenty-six, and she fully intended to see twenty-seven.

Besides, the man—when had she even decided the injured party was male?—probably deserved it. He was probably a murderer or a rapist, she rationalized. Maybe a nasty pimp.

He wasn't likely to be a nice, poor, innocent bystander, not out and about at two in the morning.

But when her wheel was situated and she heard another moan, she groaned herself.

She was a goddamn idiot, but if she didn't make sure he was alright, she was going to hear that moan in her nightmares for the rest of her life.

So, she threw her purse over her shoulder and locked her car as she walked towards the warehouse. Her right hand stayed inside her purse resting atop her gun, but when her left pushed open the door, she realized there was no point.

Laying on the floor, slumped over a broken chair, was a man wearing what had probably once been a very nice suit. Tailored, even, which meant he was certainly on the wrong side of town. His glasses hung crookedly halfway off his nose, and his white handkerchief had somehow slipped his pocket to coil around his red tie.

Between the suit and his suave haircut, he looked like a slick businessman or a lawyer, the sort that hung out only with other businessmen and lawyers in posh little restaurants. He looked completely out of place in the warehouse, sprawled over an old, broken metal chair like a raggedy doll.

He also had been shot, repeatedly. The only thing that kept Marina from screaming right then and there was the lack of any blood.

She was made of sterner shit, and that was exactly what she told herself as she bent down to check for a pulse. To her relief, he was breathing, and his heart was beating, though both appeared to tax him.

When she pulled at his shirt, she noticed why. He _had_ been shot, but he'd been wearing some sort of protective clothing that had captured all six silver slugs before they'd punctured his skin. The man was hurt, but he wasn't dead, nor was he likely to be.

He would be bruised and smashed, but he'd live.

She couldn't leave him here on the cold ground, but there was no way she was moving him, either. He was not a small man, but she, on the other hand, was a rather small woman. No, he'd have to stay right where he was until help arrived.

Reluctantly, she took her phone out of her purse, grateful she had to use her phone over her gun. Before her finger touched the first _1_ on her phone, the man reached out and rested his hand on her touch screen.

"No," he rasped, and then coughed from the effort. "No . . . police."

His voice was far lower than she'd expected, and Marina shivered. "I can't just leave you here," she protested. "You're hurt." She sighed when his hand didn't move. "Okay, no ambulance," she conceded, because she wasn't going to risk being here all night arguing with him. "Let me call someone. A friend, a brother, a neighbor, I don't care who. I won't ask any questions."

She wouldn't, either, because that was the first rule she'd learned when her mother had moved them here. You didn't ask, and you didn't tell. And there was something about this man that screamed out dangerously, _don't ask!_

" _No_ ," he repeated, and this time, it had the force behind it of a man who expected to be obeyed.

"Well what the fuck am I supposed to do with you, then?" she grumbled.

The man didn't answer her, and he didn't move his hand, either.

For the second time that night, Marina did something stupid. She just hoped it wouldn't come back later to bite her on the ass.


	3. Chapter 3

When James Wesley woke, he'd been uncharacteristically surprised to note that he wasn't lying in a heap on the warehouse floor.

In fact, he noticed with a mild amount of concern that he appeared to be in a living room, sprawled over an unfamiliar couch. A couch that he most definitely did _not_ own, because while he had nothing against the color gray, he did have something against the color when it was covered in fluffy, flowery pink and red pillows.

He tried to shift and sit up, but as soon as he moved, his back fell into the perfect place on the couch. He suddenly couldn't recall having been more comfortable in his life.

His arm dropped over his bare face, covering his eyes from the dim lighting, and before he could bring himself to think about how he could have possibly ended up on this couch of all places, he managed to fall right back asleep.

.

The second time he woke, he found that he was still sprawled over the same couch that had given him no small amount of bemusement the first time he'd seen it.

This time, however, his head was a little clearer, even if the rest of him felt like hell.

He'd been shot, he recalled, as he stared up at the darkened ceiling. He'd been shot because he'd been preoccupied, but he hadn't been fully unprepared. James Wesley could be called many things, but it was his innate talent for calculation that had brought him to where he was today. It was as natural to him as breathing.

He'd been preoccupied, but he hadn't underestimated Miss Page, and he took a small amount of comfort in that. _She_ , however, had clearly underestimated _him_. She might have escaped for now, but she wouldn't be left to meddle about freely on her own.

It would be a small misfortune to take her life now, but he wasn't a squeamish man. If she hadn't taken his rebuke to heart in the warehouse by the time he'd healed enough to return to his work, he'd simply take matters into his own hands once again. The only reason he hadn't sought her demise to begin with was because, ultimately, Wesley had concluded that this was the path most likely to protect his employer when Wilson Fisk was already off-kilter from Vanessa's attack.

And Wesley would do anything to protect his friend, just as he was positive that Wilson would turn the very tides themselves back for the very few he cared for.

Right now, Wesley had a short window to return before Wilson noticed, but his body was too battered to cooperate. Worse, the familiar feeling of his phone in his breast pocket had disappeared, crippling Wesley's effectiveness. He couldn't quite manage to leave the couch, but neither could he contact anyone else to help him, either.

There was also the little problem that Wesley didn't quite know where he was, and there was nothing more that Wesley disliked than not knowing something. Wilson wouldn't have left Vanessa's side until she'd fully recovered, and no one save Francis had known where he'd gone. If Francis had rescued him, Wesley would have been taken to a hospital, rather than being dumped across someone's couch.

Especially a couch like _this_ , one that practically screamed out its owner's identity—an identity that Wesley could not tie to any individuals he knew.

So who, then, had dragged him off of the floor—and _why_?


	4. Chapter 4

_Stupid, stupid, stupid. I'm the biggest idiot alive._

Unless, of course, Marina count her cat. Well, one of them, because the other two were fairly intelligent. Guapo, on the other hand, might be the most handsome of all of her cats as a Siamese/Mau mix, but . . . he was _also_ the stupidest. He drooled whenever anyone pet him, he whined whenever his water bowl looked empty, and he also had the annoying tendency to climb into cabinets and then forget how to get out. Luckily for Guapo, he was damned adorable even when he was stupid.

Right now, however, Marina counted her intelligence just _slightly_ higher than Guapo's.

 _Why did I bring him home with me?_ She smacked herself in the forehead with one of her books, but Puma's judgmental gaze from across the room stopped her from doing it again.

Puma, the cunning little bastard that he was, was curled up right next to the axe murderer Marina had somehow managed to drag into her house and onto her hand-me-down sofa. The black cat no doubt recognized a kindred spirit when he saw one.

Blanca, at least, had enough sense to steer clear of the lump on Marina's couch.

Still, axe-murderer or not, Marina couldn't bring herself to kick him out now any more than she could have left him passed out on that ill-kept warehouse floor. And perhaps she wasn't too unfortunate, because the man on her couch lacked any sign of the local gang tattoos. He might not have been an upstanding citizen, but at least he wasn't likely to bring world war III yakuza style into her home.

She folded her laundry as she watched him snooze, wondering if she was supposed to wake him up every hour. That's what you did with concussion victims, she knew, but it seemed rather silly to do with a man who'd been shot several times. She also figured that even if she woke him up, the couch would suck him back in. One didn't just _sleep_ on that couch.

No, you fell asleep on it on a Saturday, and woke up on a Tuesday three weeks later, with no clue what happened in between.

On the other hand, Marina didn't exactly want to leave him alone upstairs when she went downstairs to open the shop in another hour. He may not be in any real condition to rob her blind, but that didn't mean he couldn't get both of them into other kinds of trouble.

His moan, however, saved her from making a decision.

It was a quiet moan, but the fact that a man who managed to make even sleeping look meticulous, it felt horrendously out of place. His hair had scarcely seemed to defy him in his sleep, but then he went and ruined the whole image of near-perfection with that tiny little grumble.

"Are you fully awake, or is the couch going to take you for round three of three?" she called out from the hallway. It wasn't actually a hallway in truth, but rather a little cubby area to stash her washer and dryer.

But she'd forgotten that she could see him, but he couldn't see _her_.

The man began scrambling off the couch, but his foot caught on his blanket and he stumbled unceremoniously to the ground. As she rushed over to help, his hand landed on his glasses, cracking the frame.

"Oh my god." She gasped as she strained to help him back on his feet and onto the couch. "Are you okay?"

The man looked pointedly at her, and then at the cracked frame of the glasses in his hands. "It would appear," he said, pausing for a moment to sigh, "that _I_ am quite alright."

Marina winced, though she told herself that there wasn't anything for her to feel guilty about. "I'm really sorry about the glasses. I thought you'd like to have them in arms' reach."

The man gingerly unfolded his glasses, and slid them onto his face. The lenses, at least, hadn't suffered any ill-effects. "I see," the man replied. He efficiently wet both of his lips. "And who, exactly," he asked as he nudged his glasses into a more comfortable place on his nose with one hand, "are you?"

Marina decided she wasn't going to be bullied or blustered in her own home. She drew herself up proudly. "I'm Marina Burgundy. And you're welcome, by the way, for taking you back here instead of calling 911 like I'd wanted to."

She folded her arms across her chest and waited for him to introduce himself.

The man just stared back at her, and probably would have continued to do so—if Blanca hadn't acted on his natural tendency to be a complete and utter dick and drop down right onto the man's lap.

Even Marina winced as Blanca's claws made contact with the man's groin.


	5. Chapter 5

Wesley didn't scream.

He _might_ have flinched—and he considered _that_ a perfectly respectable reaction to what had just occurred—but he didn't so much as gasp when claws met his rather sensitive flesh. He did, however, sit straight up on the couch, nearly sliding off one end in the rush of his surprise.

The woman who'd introduced herself as Marina Burgundy wasn't quite so calm, and that ruled out any possibility of her having ties with his employer, or any of his employer's associates. He'd practically ruled that out by her home and appearance alone, but if he'd had any doubts, her screeching resolved them.

Wilson Fisk would not have employed a woman like _this_.

On the other hand, despite her screaming, he had to admire her gung-ho attitude. She didn't even think twice about reaching out and pulling a cat, claws and all, off of a strange man's lap, nor did she blink twice at brushing his own anatomy.

"I'm so, so sorry about Blanca," the woman repeated, giving her white cat a thorough but seemingly gentle shake. The cat, however, appeared rather smug. "He's a bit of an ass most of the time. Actually," she added dryly, "more like all of the time, frankly."

Wesley blinked, a little surprised to find that Blanca was a _he_ when the name was clearly feminine. Then again, he supposed the woman could name her cat whatever she liked, as the cat wasn't likely to care.

It certainly wasn't as if the woman wasn't odd to begin with. He estimated her to be in her mid-twenties, but he couldn't guess at her natural hair color. It was a deep red that was clearly artificial, and her brows were too dark to guess if they were black or brown—assuming, of course, that she didn't dye or color them. He recalled Vanessa mentioning something about coloring hers in, so he figured it might have been a trend. Marina, however, did have exceptionally dark eyes, and her skin clearly indicated Latina origin . . . if her name had not already suggested that.

She also was rather short, and though she had full hips, the rest of her frame was sort of an average-thin.

As he noted the large books piled neatly behind her, he guessed her to either be a librarian or a shopkeeper of books or local antiquities. Probably the latter, given her clothing. She wore jeans and a teal vee-neck that exposed her cleavage, no doubt making them look more full than they truly were. Her clothing, however, looked well-cared for, and likely purchased from a department store rather than a second-hand shop, or a discount store.

So she made enough to take care of herself, but not much more than that. Likely, then, that she ran a small shop, rather than surviving on a low city-employee paycheck. Given that they appeared to be on a second floor, judging by the single small window in the living area that pointed directly at the middle of a brick building, it was possible that she lived above her own shop.

"Gee, not much of a talker, are you?" Marina huffed as she dropped her cat to the floor. "Well, I guess you aren't likely to thank me for help, anyway, so that's fine. The door's right over there; help yourself right out."

Wesley raised his brows. "I don't speak for the sake of doing so," he countered as he shifted the glasses on his face with one hand.

She stiffened, and he assumed that she caught his meaning. "Asshole," she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

He chuckled quietly, but the sudden flush on her face told him she'd heard. The movement, however, brought to his attention the bruises that peppered his ribs and abdomen. This time, he barely managed to stop a gasp of pain.

"Jesus. If it's that bad, don't move around, you idiot." Marina moved forward and forcefully pushed him back onto the couch.

He went quietly, more because his body collapsed back on the couch than any real desire to do so. It was evident that he wouldn't be leaving as quickly as they'd both like. He'd need to contact Francis, to prevent an inevitable manhunt, but he couldn't return to Wilson's side just yet. His friend's emotions were already off-kilter, and Wesley likely wouldn't be able to move without giving himself away.

The last thing he needed was to be the final piece that knocked Wilson's infamous control out of whack. Therefore, he'd stay away from the moment, and let Francis advise their employer if he asked that Wesley was indisposed. By not returning home, or disclosing his whereabouts, he could spend a few days and get over the worst of it, and then return to help Wilson do as he did best.

Besides, he wanted to resolve the issue with Karen before he returned, and he certainly couldn't do that in his current condition.

He offered Marina his most charming smile, figuring that, like most women, she'd be easily charmed. "It seems," he drawled slowly, "that I overestimated myself."

"No shit, dumbass." She snorted. " _Eres muy loca en la cavasa_."

His smile stayed plastered on his face, but evidently, Marina wasn't most women, because he was fluent enough in Spanish to know when he was being called crazy.

It seemed that Marina Burgundy would require a different tactic altogether, to ensure her cooperation.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: I admit it. I am a slacker. Shame on me!  
_

 _._

* * *

Marina stared down at her guest, reluctant as he was.

"Look," she said slowly, placatingly, because he looked like trouble, and, frankly, she had no desire to invite trouble back into her life. "If you can't leave on your own, that's fine. But you need to call someone to get you. This isn't a boarding house, and I don't collect trouble. If you need a phone, let me know, but otherwise, you need to figure something out by tomorrow morning."

It was late evening, anyway, and he'd already spent one night on her couch. Another wouldn't hurt, but she couldn't let him stay any longer than that. Keandre was her sole part-timer, and, well, he was all of nineteen years old. He worked two jobs—Marina couldn't afford to hire him full time, anyway—but today was Saturday, and it was her sole day off. Keandre's was Sunday, and Marina had no idea what he did in his free time, nor did she ask.

So, tomorrow, Mr. Sassy-pants would have to disappear, because she sure as hell didn't trust anyone alone in her apartment.

Her mystery man gave her his most charming grin as he sat up, perfectly straight, on the couch to meet her eyes. "I apologize, Miss Burgundy. It seems we got off on the wrong foot." He offered out his hand. "My name is James Wesley; I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, despite the unfortunate circumstances."

He straightened his crooked glasses on his face with his other hand, but his majestic introduction was ruined by a momentary wheezing.

Marina ignored both his hand and his attempt at pleasantries.

"Look," she repeated, irked at how posh he managed to look despite his cracked glasses and wheezing. The man looked elegant and refined, and once again she figured that his kind belonged on Wall Street, not 10th Avenue smack in the middle of bloody Hell's Kitchen. "I'm going to be blunt. I'm sure your ribs are bruised and possibly cracked, but it's not my fault you didn't want to call 911 or go to the hospital. Honestly, I don't have time to play wet nurse. I've got a shop to open tomorrow, and I'm not about to leave you up here by yourself, either."

She tossed him her prepaid phone.

"Call someone; tell them you're at Celestial Books off of 10th Avenue," she told him, annoyed at how he didn't even bother to catch the phone. Instead, he kept his hand outstretched, allowing the phone to land safely on the couch beside him. "And you'll be at the door first thing in the morning, bright-eyed and doe-tailed."

After a moment, he dropped his hand to rest on his knee. "Miss Burgundy," he began calmly, as if she hadn't all but kicked his ass out, "I'm afraid I'm in a bit of a . . . position, at the moment." He paused for a moment. "To be blunt, my closest friend is in the hospital, and as of now, his condition is very fragile. If I return now, I risk upsetting him, and making the situation worse. It is not my intention to impose for long; perhaps a week at most."

"I'm not telling you to go to the hospital." She rolled her eyes, because his story was ridiculous. He could go home without telling his friend that James had been hurt. "I'm telling you to go home."

He didn't even hesitate. "That is the problem." He sighed quietly. "At the moment, I reside with my friend and his fiancée. If I return, she'll feel obligated to help, and I'm sure she will tell my friend as well. But if I am not there, there is nothing for her to tell other than the story I give her."

Marina folded her arms across her chest. "That's not my problem, is it?"

Frankly, this man could go, and take his problems with him. You didn't make a habit of caring for people in bad situations in Hell's Kitchen; if you did, half of them would bleed you dry, and the other half would rob you blind. She wasn't a fool; James Wesley might look like a man on the up and up, but looks could be deceiving.

He offered her a small smile. "If you allow me to stay, I will be able to rest without inducing a crisis," he finished quietly. "Of course, I am not against paying for my stay, either." He reached into his coat and pulled out his wallet. "Would a hundred dollars a day be adequate for room and board, Miss Burgundy?"

She flinched. On one hand, if he stayed a week, he'd pay her whole rent for the month. On the other, she'd feel like she'd been bought, and that was something she could do without. "No," she told him flatly.

He sighed, though he winced as he exhaled. "Miss Burgundy," he continued calmly, clearly unfazed by her continued denials, "this arrangement would suit both of us. In return for allowing me to stay, I shall offer payment. If you're concerned about leaving me alone in your home, then I will stay at your shop with you during the day. Please don't make a decision hastily."

Marina huffed. "It's not hasty, you ass," she snapped, resenting the fact that he remained perfectly poised. "I don't know you, and I don't want someone I don't know staying with me."

"Then take the time tonight to get to know me," he offered with a smooth smile. "Should I still make you uncomfortable in the morning, I'll leave."

"You'll leave, just like that?" She eyed him, feeling pressured, but she couldn't find a good enough reason to argue. He made her feel like a child for refusing, and she didn't like it. She also didn't know how to refute his calm logic, either.

He _had_ to be a lawyer, she decided. Who else would be so damn smooth with his words?

"Of course," he said, tucking his wallet back into his coat. "Do we have a bargain?"

Marina ignored the hand he offered her once more. "For tonight only," she agreed, because at least he was agreeing to leave in the morning, and that was what she'd wanted, anyway. So, really, wasn't this bargain in her favor? There wasn't much he could say or do now to change her mind, not in the space of only a few hours.

James Wesley, damn him, just smiled.


	7. Chapter 7

Marina didn't sleep a wink that night, and for that, she blamed James Wesley.

It started off innocent enough. James had offered to pay for delivery, and she'd agreed more to avoid dealing with him than any real desire to eat Chinese. While they'd waited for the delivery, however, James made use of her shower.

She should have known, looking back. There was just something disarming about a man leaving a shower smelling of woman rather than man that was oddly enticing. It had felt as though she'd claimed ownership over this man, and he had accepted. After all, what rational man would be content to leave a shower smelling of sweet pea, lilies, and cherry blossoms?

He'd had nothing to change into, so he'd redressed in his shirt and pants, though he'd left off the jacket and tie, which he had draped over the back of the couch.

He'd looked like he belonged there, in her apartment, as silly as it was to see him draped over her old flowery, worn couch. He shouldn't have looked like he fit in, not as posh and rich as his clothes screamed that he was, but he had.

And oh, he could make small talk with the best of them. She'd stubbornly avoided his attempts, but he'd drawn her into light conversation, and only the delivery man had saved her from anything further.

She'd fled to her room and eaten dinner on her bed, and thankfully, he hadn't pressed the issue. Somehow, she figured that was more because he lacked the ability to pursue her, than any real choice on his part.

Either way, she'd picked her way through dinner while doing her best to ignore any and all thoughts of the man in the other room. She'd been distracted enough, however, that Blanca made off with a third of her dinner before she'd even noticed.

Still, she'd been grateful to find that James had already fallen asleep back on the couch when she'd finally dragged herself out of the bedroom to toss her food. The lights had all been turned off, and she could almost pretend that he wasn't even there to begin with.

But when she'd gone to shower herself later that night, the shower was damp, and she was reminded that he'd used her shower. That he'd been naked in her shower.

She couldn't fall asleep that night.

.

Once again, James Wesley woke on the infernal couch.

This time, however, he was in an infinitely better mood. He was still sore, of course, but there was no way he could have mistaken the look in Marina's eyes the night before. She'd been aware of him, as a _man_ , rather than a _problem_.

He had intended, of course, to gently ply her with words and his charisma the night before, until enough of her doubts were soothed. But her attraction worked even better than any of his tactics could have, because he could easily convince her that her heightened sense of caution was directly tied to her attraction.

He slid his glasses onto his face as he hummed Beethoven's Fifth. He slid his jacket back on before adjusting his handkerchief and retying his tie, doing his best to portray his usual professionalism.

It was a look that was almost ruined when _another_ cat jumped into Wesley's lap and began purring just moments before Marina opened the door.

Instead of looking dignified, James Wesley looked domesticated. And it was then that he remembered exactly why he didn't like animals. They were unruly, unpredictable, and undignified. And this woman had far, far too many of them.

But when Marina laughed, softly at first, before she finally caved and began howling, he decided that the cat, perhaps, might just have helped relieve Marina's odd behavior.

"Come on," she told him a moment later. "Stop playing with Guapo. We're going downstairs to open up the shop. Lucky'll be by with breakfast and coffee later."

He paused in his actions of prying the cat from his lap. "Lucky?"

Marina chuckled, and he smiled at how natural it sounded. "Keandre. He's my part-timer," she explained quickly as he finally dislodged the cat. "He also works at the coffee shop a block from here, so he brings coffee when he takes a break. Says it lets him stretch his legs."

He mulled over that for a moment, curious about the nickname—and what it suggested about the woman's relationship with her employee. "Why do you call him Lucky?"

"He's been hit by a car— _twice_ —but hasn't broken a single bone." She grabbed her keys and shoved her feet into her shoes as she answered him—at the same time; the woman clearly excelled at multitasking. "He also was shot when he was sixteen in a drive-by, but the worst it did was graze his liver."

He pushed himself off of the couch. "And that's why you call him Lucky?"

"He was working for me at the time," she explained, ushering him out the front door and into a small stairway. "When I visited him in the hospital, his uncle kept telling him he was damned lucky, and it just stuck."

She proceeded down the stairs, but when she reached the bottom, she turned around and leaned on the railing. "That's enough back story from me. And don't expect me to help you down the stairs, either."

He smirked as he slowly made his own way down the stairs, but she didn't notice. Before he was halfway down the stairs, she had already unlocked another door, and entered what he assumed to be her shop.

But he didn't complain, because what she had just shared told him that she was far more empathetic than she'd ever let on.

And he would take shameless advantage of that fact until he was well enough to leave, because it was the only way to ensure all of his efforts wouldn't be in vain. One day, people like Marina and her "Lucky" wouldn't live in squalor simply because of innate poverty. Fisk's plan was so close to culmination.

It was only a matter of time.


	8. Chapter 8

James Wesley found that work at the bookstore was more exhausting than he'd have previously assumed—that or his injuries were more severe than he'd initially given them credit for.

Either way, he was grateful when the tall giant Marina dubbed Lucky showed up with coffee and a muffin for each of them. Normally, he wouldn't have dared to eat a muffin dressed in a suit, but today he was too ravenous to care about crumbs.

Marina certainly didn't care, wearing speckles of blueberry muffin with shameless pride.

By the time Lucky's break was over, James had finished his muffin and was lazily enjoying a rather well-made cup of coffee. Marina, on the other hand, had finished both, and had resumed working with a passion he'd have previously assigned only to Wilson Fisk.

Which reminded him...

"Miss Burgundy?" he called out slowly. Though he was loathe to disturb her, he had to update Francis, who would in turn update their employer. If he didn't, there was no telling what would happen.

She shoved Guapo aside—he found that he wasn't surprised at all that she let the cats run freely about the store, despite potential customers with allergies—before she turned back to look at him. "Yes?

"I need to make a call," he said simply, indicating the old rotary phone on her wall.

"Oh thank god. Call whoever you want; I'll even give directions." Marina looked pleased, and it didn't take more than a minute for him to realize that she'd misunderstood him.

"I don't intend to leave yet, not until my friend is better. I just don't want him or his fiancée to worry." The words dripped smoothly from his lips, but Marina didn't acknowledge his charisma. She simply sighed and turned away from him, and James took that as consent to make the call.

He silently rolled out Francis' number.

"It's me," he said quietly as soon as the other man answered.

"Thank god!" Francis sounded out of breath, which set off all of James' internal alarms. "After your update last night, our employer nearly went mad."

"Who told him?" James interjected, maintaining his composure though he badly wanted to curse.

Francis sighed loudly. "She did, Wesley. I wasn't there, and I didn't ask why, but you better get here soon. They had to sedate him heavily to keep him from leaving the hospital to hunt down whoever shot you."

James closed his eyes and silently cursed his own foolishness. He hadn't counted on Francis telling Vanessa everything, and her in turn telling their employer. In doing so, all of James' carefully laid plans turned to ash. He couldn't hide out here until he recovered; he'd have to go to Fisk and show his employer first-hand that he was fine.

"Send a car," James said curtly, turning to Marina to ask for the address, which she gave.

"Sounds like you're leaving," Marina remarked, folding her arms across her chest and looking far too satisfied.

"I am," James replied, though he was loathe to admit that, too. "But make no mistake, Miss Burgundy. I won't forget what you did for me. I'll be back, and I'll repay the debt that I owe."

"You can repay it by not coming back or bringing your trouble here," Marina said, so primly that James had to resist the sudden impulse to do something that was far too shocking—and something neither of them would have been ready for.

But he admitted to himself that he felt a certain attraction to her, and he had every intention of exploring it.

But not now. First, he had a duty to his employer, and the dream Wilson Fisk wanted to create for everyone in Hell's Kitchen—Marina included. But once it was accomplished, well, James would certainly have more time, wouldn't he? Wilson had often spoke of a reward for those who helped him, but this was the first time James had truly wanted something as his own.

"I will repay you," he said, quietly, surely, with no emotion but all the promise he could offer. He wouldn't give the game away just yet, not when the risk far outweighed the chance of success. "But it will take awhile."

Marina snorted. "The longer it takes, the happier I'll be."

James found that he couldn't quite let it end like that, not with her denying what was so obvious: she wanted him to come back. He walked slowly towards her, carefully manuevering her as she tried to avoid him until her back hit the wooden end of a bookshelf.

Before she could move, he gently but firmly caged her with his own arms, preventing her half-hearted attempt at escape.

"There is no point in lying to yourself, Miss Burgundy. Or to me." He reached out to cup her chin, and lifted it until she was forced to meet his eyes. Gently he ran his thumb along her lower lip, but he didn't kiss her. Not even when her lips parted ever so invitingly. He leaned in just enough to let her feel his breath, and she shivered ever so delightfully in his arms.

He left her like that, full of want and desire, pressed against the shelf as she struggled to catch her own breath. And though he didn't look back as he walked out of the store and towards the waiting car, he didn't need to.

He wouldn't forget how she looked, how much she desired him.

And the game would be much, much different for both of them the next time they met.

But for now, he owed Fisk everything, and so he allowed Marina to fall to the back of his mind as he began planning once more on how to help Wilson Fisk succeed—only this time, he was more determined than ever to realize his employer's dream.

* * *

A/N: _And that's it for this! I may write a short sequel, where he goes back. I haven't quite decided. But for now, enjoy, as this is all there is!_


	9. Chapter 9

When Vanessa and Wilson Fisk were ready to return three years later, James prepared to go with them.

Neither of them had ever questioned him about the woman he'd stayed with, but there had been a glint in Vanessa's eyes that told him she knew. And if she knew, then without a doubt Fisk did as well.

But the night before they were to return to Hell's Kitchen, after all the time that had passed, Vanessa invited him to dinner at their house.

He'd arrived, immaculately dressed, to find both Vanessa and Wilson equally dressed to the nines, but dinner was by no means a formal affair. Conversation was as light and soothing as Vanessa's home cooking.

"There's something we wanted to tell you before we went back, James," Vanessa said suddenly after dessert had been served. Unlike her husband, Vanessa had refused to ever call him anything but James. She considered him her husband's best friend, and neither Wilson nor James had seen fit to remind Vanessa that James was her husband's right-hand man, perhaps, but still his employee.

Wilson indulged Vanessa, and James simply didn't see a logical reason to correct her and risk upsetting her, and by extension, Wilson Fisk.

James simply nodded and waited.

Vanessa smiled at Fisk, who took her hand in his, and only then did she turn back to look at James. "I'm pregnant, James." She beamed. "We're having a baby."

"Vanessa thinks it's a girl," Wilson rasped, kissing his wife's hand. "A girl who would be as beautiful as my wife."

Vanessa grinned as she gave her husband a side hug from her seat.

James immediately smiled. "Congratulations, to the both of you."

He didn't mention the danger had now increased with a child involved. Daredevil was still loose about the city, and he'd amassed a surprising amount of allies in their absence. But then again, he thought, adjusting his glasses, Vanessa steadied and supported Fisk, but she also wasn't afraid to help him in his cause. Perhaps a child would humanize him to the people of Hell's Kitchen, despite the events years ago, while grounding him further.

But he would take the child into consideration and revise any plans already in motion to ensure no harm came to Vanessa or her child. They would be placed above Fisk himself, because Fisk would not survive their loss with his sanity intact, but Vanessa would, and James no longer held any doubts about whether or not Vanessa would step into Fisk's shoes.

She would, and in some ways, she was more ruthless than her husband could ever be.

"Wilson, get the champagne, would you?" Vanessa gave Wilson a besotted look, and Wilson immediately stood. "And two glasses. We should celebrate."

As soon as Fisk left the grand dining room, she raised her brows as she looked James over. "Just because you're helping us achieve Wilson's vision doesn't mean you can't reach for your own happiness," Vanessa said meaningfully. "Wilson did, and look at all the happiness it's brought him. Look up the woman you left behind when we get back."

James didn't correct her. He hadn't left Marina behind; Marina had wanted him to leave.

But he'd intended to go back to explore the connection Marina had held with him, to see if it had survived his absence.

Intended, but then had questioned himself. When was the last time he'd even pursued a woman? If he had the urge, one could be found, but he'd spent little time with Marina, and perhaps his infatuation had been due to a nightingale syndrome. And now he simply had too much to do to set aside time. Women preferred to be a priority, something he could ill afford, especially now that Vanessa was pregnant.

Vanessa watched him with a shrewd expression, and James nearly capitulated. Clearly, she thought he deserved to be as happy as she and Fisk were, and she was as devious as James himself.

"Don't forget," Vanessa added sternly. "I want to have dinner with her, James, after we're settled."

James understood her meaning immediately. If he didn't go to Marina, Vanessa would get involved on his behalf, something he'd prefer to avoid if possible. Marina might well disappear if Vanessa did anything, and a manhunt was not something he had time for.

He'd simply have to amend his plans yet again to include a woman before Vanessa forced him to anyway. Of all the women he could have kept, Marina was the only one to hold his interest for any length of time. Perhaps he'd even thank Vanessa for her machinations.

He nodded silently, and when Wilson Fisk returned with the champagne, they toasted.

.

James Wesley stood outside of Celetial Books, unsurprised to see that it had weathered the changes the years had brought without visible evidence.

Just as, he imagined, the woman herself had.

Once he'd agreed to seek Marina out, he'd plotted and waited until after they'd settled back in the city, and hammered out his plan until there was only the one, perfect one that ensured Marina would welcome him for as long as they had the connection.

If they still did.

He stepped inside as the door jingled to announce his arrival, and was greeted by Blanca, Marina's white cat, who eyed him as he made his way through the small bookstore. He noticed her other two cats, Guapo and a black one he hadn't learned the name of, and then a third, a kitten, that was obviously recently adopted into her home.

The kitten jumped from its bed on the counter to land on James' shoulder, and he tried not to think of the claw marks he'd find in his suit jacket later, or the irony of a tuxedo kitten being the one to do the damage.

"How can I help you?"

It wasn't Marina's voice. He turned to see the boy, Lucky, who hadn't changed much except now the giant sported short dreads.

"Hello, Lucky. I'm looking for Marina." James hoped the woman was in, because if she wasn't, Lucky would no doubt warn her of his arrival before he had the chance to come back.

"Why?" Lucky looked down at him without recognition, which James decided helped his cause.

"I'm an old friend," he lied without hesitation, and when Lucky raised a brow, he added, "We dated before I was required to move for a work project."

To be fair, he _had_ bought her dinner once, and they had eaten it in her home, which under any other circumstance likely would have constituted a date.

Lucky wasn't too trusting—a necessary trait for anyone living in the poverty-striken areas of Hell's Kitchen—but evidently he decided to leave this one to Marina. "Marina, there's someone here to see you. I'll be in the back if you need me."

Lucky walked to the back of the store as Marina came down her stairs. "Who is, Lucky?"

"Yes," James answered, watching her freeze on the stairs the moment she realized who was downstairs.

She _had_ changed, but not by much. Her hair wasn't red, it was now black, but it seemed to shimmer blue as she moved. But she still wore shirts that gave him an appreciative view of her cleavage, and her jeans, rolled at her ankles due to her height, still showed off her form.

She still aroused him, and he could see the desire still lurking in her dark eyes.

She glared. "Yes what?" she snapped. "And I specifically remember telling you not to come back."

"I am lucky," he said, gently removing the kitten and placing him back on the bed on the counter. "Or, at least, I hope to be."

Her eyes widened. "Oh, no you don't. You don't get to come back here and—hey!" She stopped as he began climbing the stairs to meet her. "Stop right there!"

He didn't stop, and she didn't retreat.

"I have a gun," she warned when he was two steps away.

"Really?" He glanced down her body. "So do I."

She flushed at his innuendo, and he laughed softly. There was something about teasing her that he couldn't help but be enticed by.

"Now you listen here—"

He reached her and kissed her as he'd wanted to do three years ago. He hadn't regretted leaving her wanting at the time, but now that he'd kissed her, he realized what a fool he'd been. Her lips were soft and clung to his, and she kissed him back with a fervor that delighted him.

Before he thought better of it, before he remembered their possible audience, he pressed her against the wall and kissed her deeper, with more roughness than he'd planned.

But Marina gave as good as she got. She pressed back against him, and when his hand found her breast and teased it, her hands found his ass and she ground herself into him.

She broke the kiss first. "I don't want trouble—"

He kissed her again before she could continue her protest, and again she melted into his arms. This time, she managed to align themselves perfectly and when she ground against him, he nearly lost his train of thought and with it, his carefully planned strategy to win Marina over.

He broke the kiss. "Let me take you to dinner."

"Oh!" She turned bright red, and sensing her protest, he kissed her and touched her, careful and light touches that did nothing more than tease, until she was trembling in his arms.

"Say yes," he whispered into her ear before nipping the lobe.

She squirmed against him but managed to hold her tongue.

"It's just dinner," he breathed as he moved to plant small kisses and deliver little nips down her neck. "Unless you beg for more."

She shivered. "You're trouble," she moaned.

He smirked against the base of her throat. "Perhaps," he agreed lightly. "But you like it."

He bit down on her neck and heard her gasp as his hand slid down to tease the skin above her waistband.

"Dinner and you'll never come—ah!" Marina gasped again when his hand pressed her jeans against her core.

"Not until you do," he promised darkly, and he felt her shudder.

"This is bad," she protested, and he prepared to take her further, but he heard her add, "but okay. One dinner."

Satisfied, he abruptly pulled away, leaving her struggling to catch her breath against her own wall. "I'll see you at eight."

"What the hell?" she demanded, but he simply walked down the stairs, whistling. "Hey! Who just does all that and _leaves_?! I know you can hear me, James!"

He laughed all the way to the car waiting for him. Her ire was _almost_ as arousing as her passion, and suddenly he knew that, no matter what happened, he wasn't going to le Marina go unless he tired of her, something he was beginning to doubt. Their chemistry was explosive, and he'd only deluded himself, and himself only, by trying to deny it.

He licked his lips, enjoying the taste of her that lingered. He would have to amend his plans again, because he wasn't sure he could walk away from her need a second time that day.

And oh, what fun he'd have seducing her. What fun indeed.

* * *

 _A/N: Obviously, since Wesley lived, the return of Fisk would be different, so I didn't even try and stick to canon here, but I did draw a little from the comics._

 _It felt unfinished, though, so here's to a nice ending. But this is it for real. Leave comments and kudus, add a bookmark, have fun, but this is the eeeeeend~_


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